to my guardian angel who must be very tired

among random balls of socks and scattered keys,
a box of tea. strawberry.
a wisp of smoke greets the twilight,
the wind’s stopped. completely.
unburdened trees look into the bottomless puddles,
the stars scatter. brilliantly.
i start the kettle, a vessel a little sooty,
to make tea. for two.
then i wonder if messengers moult or grow old.
or get shot. too often.
the steam from the kettle sings and condenses
like two wings. extended.

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